Chapter 18
Gerald Zowen was a no-nonsense, now-quite-jaded, Caucasian junkyard man in his late 50s with light-brown-to-light-ash-gray, collar-length hair. He was the owner of Shipyard Boulevard Auto Salvage. It had been his business for the past thirty-one years. He had won it as a result of a winning poker hand – a jack-high spade straight flush – at the old Barbary Coast tavern in downtown Wilmington.
He had two German Shepherds on his lot. One stayed near him; the other was a roamer. Scout, he called the latter. Jenny was his office guard dog. Eight other German Shepherds had passed away over the years. Gerald loved that breed. He had pictures of them on the dark lauan paneling in his office.
Gerald had received the initial call from Exceptional Rent-A-Car’s uptown Charlotte office around 9:30 AM on that foggy Sunday morning of June 24th. He happened to be in the office updating his online parts inventory, when some guy in Shallotte inquired via e-mail about a 2006 Ford Taurus glove-box door. Glancing out the left-side window, he paused and thought: Just no telling, even after all these years, which part someone might need next. If there is a pattern, it’s way beyond my bean’s pay grade.
He inspected the totaled white Ford Focus that had been deposited in the incoming lot. The left-front of this car is worthless – trash. And since it was underwater for hours – and in brackish water at that – all the electrical items are junk, too. However, the right side doors, panels, and trunk are still sellable. That’s about it. I’ll make them a low-ball offer.
Gerald called Exceptional back at 11:11 AM.
“Hello, you’ve reached Exceptional Rent-A-Car in uptown Charlotte,” a female voice announced. She sounds so chipper for a Sunday morning.
“Yes, could I speak with Steve Simonz?” Gerald asked, while rocking in his once-dark-gray-but-now-nearly-black, high-back desk chair.
“Sure, I’ll transfer you. Just one second.”
“This is Steve. What can I do for you?”
“Steve, this is Gerald Zowen at Shipyard Boulevard Auto Salvage in Wilmington.”
“Oh, yes, Gerald. How are you doing?”
“Well, I could stand to find some gold.”
“I hear ya! Couldn’t we all? Well, are you interested in making us an offer for that gently used, low-mileage, one-owner, white 2011 Ford Focus?” Steve was laughing.
“Gently used? You are a comedian on the side, aren’t you, Steve?” Gerald was chuckling now, too.
“Well, just shoot me a number, Gerald. What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking three hundred, Steve. This car is toast – smushy [sic] toast. You and I both know that it was underwater for at least two hours.”
“Gerald, you’re hurting me. It’s Sunday. Show me some mercy.” Steve was laughing again. “Can we go five hundred, big guy?” Big guy? How does he know my waist size?
“No, that’s a little rich for my blood, Steve. I’m just a poor junkyarder, merely eking out a plebeian existence.”
“Ok, how about four-fifty, Gerald? I bet you will triple or quadruple your investment in six months or less.” Investment? Is this guy high on dust remover?
“Four-twenty-five. Final offer.” Gerald was serious again.
“Deal. You got it, Gerald. I’ll fax the paperwork over to you shortly.” Darn, maybe I should have gone lower.
“Thanks, Steve. Take care.” Gerald hung up the old corded desk phone. He loved this reliable landline connection. Now, why in the world did I buy that car?